In Their Shoes
by shoefiend
Summary: Fans of the show have often asked how our four ladies met. They never say on the show, of course. I imagine it went something like this. Some of the characters in this piece of fan fiction also popped up in the show.
1. Carrie

August 20, 1988

Carrie

The shoes were the most beautiful Carrie Bradshaw had ever seen. As she examined the fine leather and the perfect stitching and workmanship, she literally forgot to breathe for a few seconds. She thought that this is how Daisy Buchanan must have felt as she lightly ran her fingers over Jay Gatsby's silk shirts. "They're so beautiful," she sighed.

"They're yours," Paolo said.

"I have like no money. I couldn't possibly…," she said with regret.

"Of course you can," said Paolo's partner and his partner, Stanford Blatch chimed in unison.

"When I saw you going out last Saturday, working those tired Candies for all they were worth, I told Paolo that he must snag these for you. Kim is wearing them on the cover of the September Vogue. They aren't even in the stores yet," Stanford said.

"Put them on," Paolo demanded.

They fit perfectly. Paolo and Stanford could see the utter look of bliss on Carrie's face. She walked a few yards down the hallway and turned, imitating the runway walk she had seen on Elsa Klensch's show on CNN.

Carrie's wrestled with her conscience. She didn't know how much the shoes would cost, but she knew it was a lot more than she could possibly afford. She also, knew that Paolo, as a representative of the line, could probably get them for next to nothing. She had certainly never owned any shoes that came anywhere close to being comparable. Nor had anyone else she had ever known for that matter.

She brushed her fingers over the graceful lines of the stiletto heel of one shoe and appreciated the buttery-soft leather. No one in the world would love these shoes the way she did. They must be hers. Something burst in her heart. A shoe lover was born.

Then suddenly she brightened. "I know what I can do. One of the editors at the Star gave me free passes for a new club that's opening tomorrow night. I want the two of you to come with me as my guest."

A few hours later, Carrie tried to take twenty dollars from the ATM. It felt like a violent blow to her heart when the machine spat out a slip of paper saying her transaction was being denied to insufficient funds. She would have sworn she had enough in her account. She hastily went through her handbag looking for cash. She found eight dollars and change.

She headed down the street to McDonalds for a Big Mac and small fries. It was going to be tough to make it through the weekend. She had grown up in a working-class home and was used to worrying about how to make ends meet. She had assumed that it would all be easier than this when she graduated from college.

All summer long she had been sending out her clippings from her college newspaper to any and every publication she could find. So far her job search had borne no fruit. Her only paying work had been writing a few articles for the New York Star on a freelance basis. If only they would hire her on a permanent basis. As nice as it had been to see her byline in the paper those four times, if the _Star_ or some other publication didn't hire her on a permanent basis, soon enough she would have to return to her hometown in the Midwest. If she was lucky, the local paper would hire her and she could write articles that would be published next to the ads for tractors. No. She couldn't let that happen. She had to stay here. She had fallen in love with New York at first sight.

Being unemployed had left her plenty of time to explore the neighborhood where she lived and the greater city. She loved everything about New York. She loved the small second-hand clothing stores. She loved the way the gruff guy from Brooklyn who ran her favorite hole-in-the-wall pizza place snarled at his customers. She loved the museums. She loved the huge buildings – the Chrysler building, the Empire State Building, the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. She loved that she could live in New York for a million days and never run out of places to explore – a new neighborhood that was suddenly emerging as the new hot spot, a new shop, a new artist. And, like all great loves, she loved the way she felt when in the company of this great city. New York City was where the whole world converged, the beginning of it all. She loved feeling a part of all that.

Late next afternoon, Carrie exited the glorified broom closet that was her apartment wearing the very same pair of Candies that her neighbor Stanford had mocked the day before. They were over five years old now. She had bought them on a school trip to Chicago her senior year of high school. Until yesterday, they were the nicest pair of shoes she had owned. Today they seemed to mark her as a rube among the fashionable New Yorkers.

As she passed the newsstand, she saw the new issue of Vogue on the racks. She stopped and flipped through the magazine. If she bought it, she wouldn't have enough money even for another Big Mac. She put the magazine on the counter and fished the money out of her bag. Vogue would feed her spirit. On the way back to apartment, her stomach growled. "I hope they have lots of food at the club tonight," she thought.


	2. Samantha

August 21, 1998 

Samantha

The mint green pumps perfectly matched Samantha Jones' leather jacket, and that made them her favorite. She admired her reflection in the mirror. The miniskirt she was wearing made her legs look a mile long. She looked hot tonight.

Tonight all that sex appeal was going to go to waste. She was handling the party for the opening of a new nightclub. As much as she loved sex, she kept her professional life and her sex life separate. It was a matter of pride to her. This grand opening party was the first project she had been allowed to handle herself. For a few years now, she had labored unappreciated at Perrins and Company, Public Relations. If this evening went the way she hoped, it would open up all sorts of opportunities for her.

Several hours later, the party was in full swing. Oh, it wasn't exactly Studio 54 all over again. Nothing would ever be like those days. But it would do. It would definitely do.

She looked over at the buffet table and spotted a young woman with shaggy brown hair. This girl was just devouring the hors d'oeuvres but trying not to be too obvious about it. She must be a party crasher.

Samantha crossed the room and asked the girl, "Honey, do you have your invitation."

The girl looked embarrassed. She pulled the invitation out of her bag. "I'm Carrie Bradshaw. I'm here for the Star."

Samantha took quick stock of Carrie. She was wearing a skirt that appeared to have come from a thrift shop. The top she wore had probably bought at some nondescript shop at a mall somewhere in the Midwest three or four years ago. Incongruously, her shoes, however, were obviously new and obviously expensive. Somehow, it hung together. Samantha had to admit that this Carrie person seemed to have a better sense of style than most of the people in the trendy crowd present this evening.

"Do you write for the _Star_?"

"No. Well, yes. I have written some freelance articles for them. I am hoping they publish my article about this party."

This was not good news, not the reception she had been hoping for. The leading alternative newspaper in the whole city didn't even have enough interest in her event to send a real reporter. As disappointed as she was, Samantha rallied. Perhaps she could give this Carrie Bradshaw some guidance.

"Then you're going to need to know who all the players are. See the tall girl over there? That's Lexie Featherstone. She's fabulous. She is the it girl of the moment – sexier than Cornelia Guest, less likely to have her boobs pop out of her top than Diane Brill. You simply must meet her. Come with me and I will introduce you." Samantha had noticed Lexie exiting the club's ladies' room only moments earlier. There was every possibility that Lexie would be so under the effect of the brazilian marching powder that she always seemed to have around that she might be a bit more out of control even than was usual for her. On the other hand, if a scandal occurred, that would be good publicity too.

All night long, Samantha worked the press like the publicity pro she was, and made the needed introductions like the well-connected insider she wanted to be. In the wee small hours of the morning, she knew the event had been a complete victory. She was overjoyed.

As the last guests filed out of the club, she got a Styrofoam container from the club's back room and scooped the last of the hors d'oeuvres into it. She handed the container to Carrie Bradshaw, who took the container without a word, but with a grateful expression on her face. Then she wished her a good night and said she couldn't wait to see her article in the Star.


	3. Chalotte

October 2, 1989 

Charlotte

The Chanel slingbacks were truly elegant. Charlotte York admired the reflection of her feet wearing them in the store mirror.

"Those shoes were just made for you," the salesman enthused.

"I'll take them." These shoes were her first real grown-up fashion purchase. Something from a label like Chanel couldn't possibly be purchased an instant before college graduation. It just wouldn't be right. Now that she had her first job, at an art gallery, she couldn't do without them.

Less than an hour ago she had deposited her commission check for her first important sale, a piece by the sculpture Aleksandr Petrovsky, the Russian-born artist whose defection a decade ago had been the talk of the art world to this day. She was in the mood to splurge.

It had been an accomplishment on the part of the gallery where she worked to have the work of several well-known European-based artists on exhibit. It was her own personal coup to have sold the most important piece in the collection even before the opening party.

When she returned to her office, she took off the Papagallo flats with the little flowers that she has been wearing all morning, took the new shoes out of the box and put them on.

Then she dialed Joe's office. Joseph Woodhall was an up-and-coming stockbroker and a fraternity brother of her older brother, Wesley. He and Charlotte had been going out for a little over a month. Joe's blond good looks were something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. He had his MBA from a top university. His manners were impeccable. Best of all, he owned his own "classic eight" on the upper east side. He was bordering on perfection.

"I'm sorry Miss York, but Mr. Woodhall is in a meeting. Would you like to leave a message?"

"No, that's okay. I will get in touch with him later." Charlotte tried to keep the disappointment from showing in her voice. Joe had certainly been busy a lot in the last week. But he had been so sweet to her. She remembered the two of them tangled up in the sheets the night before last. He would call. And he would definitely show up at the gallery opening tonight. She had told him how important it was to her and he had promised.

A few hours later, Charlotte checked her watch. It was past seven o'clock and Joe had still not shown. Charlotte wanted to go back into her office and try to reach him at home. She knew that he had left work for the day several hours ago. Where was he?

The blonde publicist who had introduced herself as Samantha was telling some story about having actually met Aleksandr Petrovsky at Studio 54 years ago. Samantha abruptly interrupted her own story by saying, "I know you," very loudly.

The "you" Samantha recognized was a petite woman with chunky blonde streaks in her hair.

"You're Carrie aren't you? We met at the opening at that club…" Samantha snapped her fingers and tried to remember. "I have seen you around town. I read your articles in the Star every week."

"Carrie" looked pleased and a bit surprised that Samantha remembered her. "You saved me that night," she said. Then she turned to Charlotte. "I'm Carrie Bradshaw. I'm a staff writer for the New York Star."

When Charlotte went to the gallery's back room to get some more bottles of champagne, she took a moment to call Joe at his home number. She got his answering machine.

As the evening wound down, Charlotte was proud. Over the evening, she has managed to sell a few minor pieces. Though she had worked at the gallery for several months, this was the first time she felt like she belonged here. How nice it would have been if Joe had been here to see her at her moment of triumph.

"Carrie and I have decided that we are going out dancing Saturday night," Samantha announced. "You must come along with us."

Charlotte hesitated. "Oh, no, I can't. I am seeing someone. I am sure that we will be going out Saturday night."

"Well, if Mr. Wonderful doesn't show, the offer still stands."

"Oh, yes, please, please, please come along. It will be fun," Carrie wheedled.


	4. Miranda

September 5, 1991 

The strappy sandals were the only pair of shoes that Miranda Hobbes owned that were not completely utilitarian. She took them from the shoe rack in her as she got home from the law office where she had been working all summer. She kicked off the sensible shoes with the chunky heels that she wore to work. The boiled wool suit that was her work uniform lay in a heap on her bedroom floor.

This was not just any Friday. No, today she had received word that she had passed the New York bar exam. She had more than passed it. She had scored in the upper five percentile statewide.

She had thought of calling her parents back in Philadelphia with the news but decided against it. Her mother would no doubt break into some story about the upcoming wedding of Miranda's older sister, a milestone she would no doubt consider much more important. Her father would say, "You sure are lucky." It was just too depressing. She could wait until they called her on Sunday morning.

She took Gloria Vanderbilt jeans from their hanger on the closet and tossed them on the bed. She found the silk top with the spaghetti straps. She went into the bathroom and applied her lipstick. She came to the realization that she was getting ready to go out. But she couldn't go out alone. It was pathetic, and it wasn't even safe.

It suddenly hit her that she knew very few people in New York. She knew a few people from work, but not well. The office was a place where she went to work, not make friends. She had spent every second she could spare studying for the bar exam. She admitted to herself that she was lonely, an unusual occurrence for Miranda.

She hauled her geeked-up self to the small café down the street. At this hour, it was packed. She placed her order and then she groaned inwardly. This had all been a mistake. She was about to cancel her order and go back to her apartment and send out for Chinese food when she saw a blonde woman around her own age sitting alone at one of the tables. There was something strangely approachable about her. She found herself asking this stranger if she could share the table.

"Oh, sure. Have a seat," she replied. "I am just waiting for my girlfriends, Samantha and Charlotte to show up. We're going to get a little something to eat and go out dancing."

The two women fell easily into conversation. They each had something to celebrate that night. Miranda had passed the bar. Carrie had just been given her own column at _The New York Star_. Carrie explained that she was wanting to cover the fashion scene and social scene in Manhattan. She just didn't have a name yet. "I want something that let's the reader know what to expect – that it's about relationships and all the nightlife in this big, wonderful city."

"There you are – Sex and the City," Miranda said.

"That's it," Carrie exclaimed. Just then Charlotte and Samantha walked in.

_Sex and the City _

_ Carrie Bradshaw_

_Four girlfriends – the outrageous publicist, the Episcopalian princess, the skeptical attorney and the columnist -- met last evening over French fries and salads. They talked about their jobs, the men in their lives … and their aspirations. It turns out that what they have in common is much greater than the sum of their differences. _

_This column, SEX AND THE CITY, is new. It's dedicated to the women of Manhattan – those chic creatures who love fashion, who sometimes struggle with relationships, who love being in the know about the latest and greatest places to hang out. This column is for you._


End file.
